


The One Where Aria Does Obscene Things to Shepard, One Of Which Involves A Krogan

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, F/F, F/M, Fingerfucking, Group Sex, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), Strap-Ons, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard always maintains such tight control that it’s a pleasure to take it from her.</p><p>It’s a pleasure to be gifted with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Aria Does Obscene Things to Shepard, One Of Which Involves A Krogan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ialpiriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/gifts).



The famous—the _infamous_ —Commander Shepard is a sight to behold, her face all hard angles and with a jaw that could crack steel. She stands tall, carrying so much invisible to the unknowing—her years, the horror of Akuze still rendered stark in the dark outline of a thresher maw running along her spine—the burden of two lifetimes. Aria had thought it could be _anyone_ wearing that skin, eager to claim the glory and respect of the first human Spectre.

But no. It’s Commander Shepard—Cecilia Shepard, the tendons of her neck standing out like steel cables as she gasps beneath Aria’s touch, the woman surprisingly _squirmy_ for such a feared figure.

Aria does not know if it’s love, no. But it does not have to be love to press her nails over that virginal flesh, tracing red lines over smooth skin that’s been rebuilt cell by cell, blood and muscle and bone. A clean canvas, all her scars erased when Cerberus brought her back from the dead—fresh for the marking. Even her tattoos present more enigma for that; had Cerberus traced the needles and ink in an effort to return her to a shell she recognized? Had there been effort to rebuild the body-temple of the fallen commander in hopes her spirit might once again dwell there? Or had Shepard taken it upon herself at her first docking to seek out a reputable tattoo parlor, to lay there unflinching and once again accept the pain of each line being laid in its proper place? Had it been more difficult for her to make that decision to reclaim her sense of “self,” or had it been more difficult to lie there in the shop while some stranger inflicted pain, and being unable (unwilling) to fight back?

Shepard always maintains such tight control that it’s a pleasure to take it from her.

It’s a pleasure to be _gifted_ with it.

This section of Afterlife is dark, though music throbs all around them, Shepard’s blood pounding to match it as Aria presses her fingers over the pulse of her neck. The guards are standing watch by the stairs—Aria thinks Shepard wouldn’t mind being on display, might even like it, being stripped bare and made to gasp and moan in front of an audience, but _Aria_ minds—and only one dancer can see into Aria’s private lounge, her skin alternating pink and purple in the flashing lights as she twirls around the pole. But Aria trusts the asari’s discretion, particularly as the asari is another undercover guard.

So Aria allows herself to relax—as much as she ever allows herself—and savor Shepard’s soft moans, bending her ear close to feel the puff of breath against her aural crease when Shepard exhales loud and gusty, alternating gulps and breathy sighs with her arms stretched overhead, body sprawled across the couch. Her forearms shake with tension despite being held in place by nothing more than her own will, Aria not even deigning to use biotics to pin her in place.

Shepard is _Aria’s_.

“Keep your eyes closed, Shepard.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The trust works both ways—Aria knows she need not check Shepard, instead entertaining herself by tracing her tongue along that elegant neck, then pinching her teeth over the pulse of her throat, a whisper-bite to feel the blood beat beneath her lips. She plucks Shepard’s earlobe between thumb and forefinger—such a strange, soft bit of flesh—and presses her nail in, creating a sharp crescent mark that goes hard, harder, not pausing until she hears the breath hiss past Shepard’s teeth. Then she pauses, holding, counting ten breaths before releasing.

Shepard endures admirably, eyelashes fluttering but lids still shut. Not even a trickled tear escapes.

Satisfied, Aria turns her attention lower, studying Shepard’s form like a favorite book, retracing each familiar line and the exquisite flavor of her body language. She lashes her name with teeth and nails, rubs the bones of her knuckles along Shepard’s inner thigh to part them like pages, and leans forward to inspect the commander’s slick cunt, using only her eyes—for surely Shepard can feel the weight of her gaze, heavier than any prior lover’s hand—to probe deep and admiring. The coarse crinkle-curls of the hair over her sex fascinates Aria, and she blows softly to watch them tremble beneath her breath. Shepard sighs, her arms still overhead but her body clenching, buttocks tightening as if to present herself.

Resting an elbow against Shepard’s thigh, Aria trails her fingers over the dip of Shepard’s navel, then the swell of her belly before tickling the dark curls with her fingertips. Pinching just slightly, tugging to see the skin move and feel Shepard tighten beneath her—this is not even truly an attempt to _pleasure_ Shepard, but to explore her, to appreciate the terrain of her body and all the little things that make her unique. She leans forward, inhaling Shepard’s scent. Pubic hair is such a strange thing, capturing a rich potpourri of musk and tang, glistening with arousal and trapping the slickness pooling between her legs.

Aria likes it.

“Touch yourself.” She leans back, watching Shepard—eyes still closed—pinch her nipple, tweaking the bud and rolling it between the pads of her fingers.

Shepard’s other hand glides down her body, palm skimming the skin before her fingers curve, dipping to the cleft of her sex and gathering moisture before lighting upon her swollen clitoris. She rubs herself fast, hard, slippery and near-frictionless as she curls her toes, gasping and arching her back. Her head rolls to the side, lips parted and tongue just visible past her teeth as she moans, the pitch rising to a hiccup as she lifts her hips—

And Aria growls “ _enough_ ” so Shepard flops still like a puppet with the strings cut, panting and with her hands still. Aria waits two heartbeats before giving a terse “start again. Now.”

They continue like paired dancers, Shepard’s eyes shut and trusting Aria to lead. Aria watches her, reads the pulse of her body and the tremor in her legs, the curl of her toes and the tension in those lips as Shepard groans. Before Shepard can climax, Aria again commands a halt, and Shepard lays there, her flushed cheeks rivaling the lipstick slicked across her mouth. Aria traces the edge of her nail over Shepard’s skin, slicing a thin white line over ruddied flesh, all the way from the side of her knee up the meat of her thigh and then skipping to her breasts, cupping so that her splayed fingers frame the puckered nipple.

Shepard stops breathing, frozen in anticipation.

“Again. Pleasure yourself.”

A soft whimper escapes, her lipstick smeared like war paint as Shepard returns her attention to the task at hand. Aria keeps her body above Shepard’s, the human’s wrist scraping the fabric of Aria’s pants before Aria shifts her weight to the side. She breathes the salt on Shepard’s skin, feeling the other woman’s body tense again, hips thrusting and shoulders digging into the couch as Shepard’s eyes squeeze tight, barely more than thin lines with her lashes casting shadows on her upturned cheeks—

“Come for me, Shepard.”

She obeys, joyous as a crashing wave, body quaking while she arches—once, twice, thrice—and Aria cannot resist a chuckle as she presses herself onto Shepard, straddling her belly and curling a hand behind her neck. Shepard takes her cue to relax, opening her eyes and grinning lopsidedly at the asari. Aria allows Shepard to settle her hands across her shoulders, savoring the warmth of Shepard’s broad hands, callouses rough against her jacket but all the more precious for their familiarity.

Grazing her thumb across Shepard’s lower lip, catching a stray smear of lipstick and wearing it thin across her human’s chin, Aria does not know if it’s love.

But she loves doing this.

 

They meet again a week later.

Aria knew the moment her ship landed, but remained in her private lounge because just because she _knows_ something does not mean she has to _act_ on it. She deliberately does not watch her chronometer, instead skimming her agent’s reports and sparing an occasional glance for the dance floor, watching the plain-clothes thugs subtly and not-so-subtly jockey for position around a mouthy batarian. Barring divine intervention, he will not make it home tonight; the gangs does not look kindly on red sand dealers who cut their product.

Aria knows, but she does not act.

She does not _need_ to act because she spots a familiar shaved head, stubble just dark enough to shade the contours of the skull.

Shepard moves through the crowd like a tremor. People move aside even without recognition of the first human Spectre, responding to her aura rather than her fame.

Aria sees her pause by the batarian, murmuring something with a smile so broad her jaw might crack.

The batarian stiffens, looks around—and Shepard says something else to the circling predators, who mill in agitation because they smell blood in the water but haven’t quite decided if it’s theirs or not.

And that strange, indescribable _ability_ she has to read people, like witchcraft or telepathy, some power greater than the metal lining her bones or the crackling biotics at her command, means she soothes the situation. The motley crew disperse and the batarian stares at her, all eyes blinking rapidly as he reconsiders the choices that led him to this night in the Afterlife.

Shepard meets her upstairs and they talk stupid shit, like where she’s been and the team she’s recruited. Aria chuckles at her mention of the breakout from Purgatory, filing a note to look up some possible agents. As well as a few assholes she wants to make sure don’t survive recapture.

But this stupid shit is not _them_ , an itch in the back of her scalp that doesn’t go away until finally Shepard asks about going somewhere more _comfortable_. Aria’s grin scythes across her face as she rises, crooking her finger and leaving for her private vehicle dock. Shepard’s steps are lost beneath the pounding rhythm, but re-emerge into Omega’s acoustic tapestry once they emerge from the Afterlife. A quiet word to the chauffeur already waiting, and they are off. The easiest abduction of Aria’s life.

Aria sits back, one ankle hooked over her knee and her arms sprawling across the backseat. Mere centimeters from Shepard’s skin, her radiant heat making Aria hyper-aware of that scant distance between them. Shepard grins, one side quirked just slightly higher than the other and her elbows resting on her thighs. Aria wonders if Shepard will read too much into this liaison, or not enough.

Because Aria doesn’t just _own_ Omega, she _is_ Omega, knows every little capillary and grimy alley, the couriers running like synapses through the station’s tangled warrens. She defends her own, from when she was a sharp-knuckled mercenary with ragged nails to a steel-eyed dancer moving sidelong and sly towards the throne. To be allowed into the silent core of Omega’s massive heartbeat means you are _Aria’s_.

That doesn’t mean it’s love.

But she loves pressing Shepard to the wall once they’re past the doorway, twisting her fist into Shepard’s shirt and yanking the taller woman’s lips within reach. She pushes, tongue on her teeth and then savage lips sucking hard, swatting Shepard’s hands when the human attempts to feel her up in return.

“You’ll touch me when I say so. Got it?” she growls, cupping her fingers around Shepard’s chin and tugging down.

Shepard bends obediently, murmuring, “Yes ma’am.”

So Shepard keeps her hands down, palms flat to the wall and thighs quaking, her breath escaping long and ragged past Aria’s cheek. Aria wedges her thigh between Shepard’s legs, grinds up to feel that hot patch of flesh at the apex, and savors the bristle-sharp stubble on Shepard’s scalp beneath her nails as she wraps herself around her. Shepard’s gasps change in pitch, rising to a hiccup as Aria bites behind her ear, leaving a livid red mark.

“Strip down for me, Shepard.” She takes a single step back, leaving just enough space for Shepard to shiver before giving a quick “yes ma’am” and unzipping. Light sparks in her eyes, reflects green fire that blinks out once Shepard lowers her gaze. Hard muscle and smooth skin, flesh pliant despite the subdermal skin mesh—her Shepard is a study in contradictions, something delicious to savor as she sheds her clothes. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and just enough softness to blunt the edges of an abdomen hard enough to crack walnuts.

Aria catches a glimpse of herself in the circular mirror hanging beside Shepard’s head. That damn lipstick smudged her lips, like she’s been drinking blood. Her fingers twitch, resisting the impulse to wipe it away. Shepard has marked her in turn.

She rakes her gaze across the woman’s form to dispel that thought.

Tiny needle-pricks of chill jump out from her skin, her nipples dark and tight. Wearing little more than ink and the dark hair over her cunt, Shepard still stands tall and attentive. Shoulders back, perfect stance, a life-size toy soldier for Aria’s amusement. Even the thin lines of the circuitry tattooed on her thighs looks like armor, some expensive biotech for the best woman the galaxy has to offer.

Voice languid, Aria instructs her to follow. Shepard’s bare feet patter soft, the hard click of Aria’s boots almost drowning them out as she leads the way to the living room. It is sparsely decorated, with only a few choice pieces on illuminated displays. Shepard lingers by one, a sinuous curved thing that reflects infinity, and Aria snaps her fingers to summon her attention once more. It’s a fine piece, purchased from some local girl’s first gallery showing, but Aria had not invited Shepard to discuss aesthetics.

“Undress me.”

Shepard stands close, unbuckling the straps on Aria’s outfit and circling an arm around her to pluck the jacket from her shoulders. She manages to do so without more than incidental touches, a nail grazing Aria’s skin and just the slightest brush of her palm over Aria’s back. But she does not linger, so Aria permits these small familiarities. In this proximity, Aria smells something clean and crisp, a cool aroma that tickles her throat like a fine spice laid over the scent of salt and skin. Some human cologne, just enough to make an impression; Shepard understands the power of moderation.

Moderation is the farthest thing from Aria’s mind when she stands naked before Shepard.

“I have a toy I would like to use on you. It was designed for asari, but there’s enough similarity it should work for you as well. It is meant to be controlled by biotics, but I would like you to trust me to handle that. Any questions?”

That lopsided smile, crooked like a politician, and Shepard asks, “Just one. When do we start?”

Aria snaps her teeth together, lips curled as she plucks an orb from a small tripod. The toy is innocuous in design, enough that Aria takes perverse delight in using it as a display piece around the unsuspecting. A silver orb, designed to project vibrating appendages that resonate at different frequencies. A moment’s focus traces crackling blue light over the toy, causing its surface to ripple quicksilver as it pulses, an oscillating hum that tickles her fingers before she presses it between Shepard’s legs, biotics suspending it in place. The tall woman’s laughter get smothered beneath Aria’s teeth as the asari bites her lip, Shepard pulling her close and thighs parting to welcome the toy pressed against her pussy. Aria scrapes her nails over Shepard’s neck in a backhanded stroke, tugging and walking backward until Aria’s heel hits the edge of her favorite armchair. Settling in place with her legs spread wide enough to offer Shepard a glimpse of her wet cunt, she commands, “Kneel.”

Shepard on her knees is a beautiful sight, and Aria does not know if it this is love (is it love when a savage thing circles close, drawn by scattered crumbs around the fire’s light?) but she loves Shepard on her knees.

She rests her hands on Aria’s thighs, calluses rough but Aria relishes the feel, knows that she is regaining the marks and wear of her life. Death may wash away her scars, but only life may reclaim them. She dips her head, pressing her lips in soft worship about the pad of her pubic mons and uses her thumbs to part her outer labia, offers tender kisses and warm nuzzles— threatens to spend all night in foreplay until Aria growls at her to hurry up.

Obedient, dutiful Commander Shepard bends like a tree in a gale, smears scarlet on Aria’s inner thigh and probes her tongue over her clit. Small strokes, tongue hard against the swollen bud, and Aria grips the armrest, toes flexing against the floor as she groans. She hisses for her to change the pace, the intensity, and Shepard complies with broader licks, lapping slow and sweet as Aria hooks one heel over Shepard’s shoulder, drumming to guide her. Shepard learns quickly, matching the rhythm without getting distracted by the toy held in place by Aria’s biotics. Briefly, Aria entertains the thought of upping its speed and fixing it more firmly in place, but _fuck_ not yet, not when she herself is so fucking _close_ …

She holds her lower lip between her teeth, biting to keep from screaming as she comes against Shepard’s mouth, and would be flopping back with satisfaction except that the human keeps _going_ , her breath hot on Aria’s pussy and bearing down relentlessly. Aria quakes, nails digging furrows into the couch and her calves tight, climaxing explosively until she finally arcs against Shepard’s mouth and roars “ _enough!”_ with her palm on the other woman’s forehead.

Shepard stops, frozen in place with only her eyes moving, searching Aria’s face. Aria’s spine bends, meeting the back of the chair one vertebra at a time as she slumps back. It takes five long breaths before she regains her composure, fixing Shepard with a glare that does nothing to faze the human’s cheeky grin.

“Excellent job, Commander. Time for your reward.”

“Being of service to a beautiful asari is its own reward.” And Aria’s heard that line in all its variations at least two dozen times over the centuries, but never from a woman whose lips are still smeared with sex and lipstick. Especially not one with that damn smirk.

Aria chuckles, tilting her head to inspect her thighs. More crimson, wearing thin against the indigo of her skin but with one improbable and perfectly shaped kiss mark. More evidence of Shepard, like fingerprints at a crime scene.

“My kind of reward has more orgasms,” Aria growls, giving a backhanded stroke of her nails on Shepard’s cheek.  She tweaks the toy’s settings with a biotic pulse and the speed alters, intensity ramping as motors shift beneath the liquid skin. Two extension bud to nestle Shepard’s clit snug between them. The woman slumps over, forearms still braced on Aria’s knees and her head tilting forward until Aria lifts her chin, presses two fingers over her throat and growls “look at me.”

Shepard gulps, tongue pink and wet as it hangs out of her mouth. Pupils blown huge, dark and threatening to consume the iris, she manages to keep her gaze locked with Aria’s even as Aria triggers another biotic pulse, a shallow tendril probing into the human’s cunt. Human anatomy bears remarkable similarities to asari at times, and if she can just find that spongy mass—ah, _there_. Shepard moans high and frantic, pushing down with bruising force as her spine straightens, almost as if trying to escape. Aria shackles her hands over Shepard’s wrists, squeezing so her knuckles jut like knives as she snaps, “Be still.”

And Shepard obeys, settling her weight back on her knees and forearms, but Aria watches how the muscles jump beneath her skin, the tightness in her shoulders as she watches Aria with sweat trickling down her scalp. It’s like electricity arcing between them, Aria gauging Shepard by the flutter in her lashes and the furrow in her brow.

Shepard, the brave and noble Commander Shepard, is such a shameless beggar as she finally moans, “Oh please, please, _please_ …”

“Please what?” Aria asks, thrusting a finger into the soft underside of Shepard’s jaw, making her eyes roll back and lids squeeze shut.

Eyes still closed, tears dotting the edges, Shepard whimpers, “Please let me come.”

So Aria lets her, pushing up the vibration’s speed until it’s hard, near-painful, Shepard’s tremors rocking into the chair and through Aria, hard enough to make her own thighs shake as Shepard screams high and sharp like breaking glass—

And because Shepard had kept _going_ with her, Aria shows no mercy as Shepard continues, the human’s mouth hanging open, lips wet with saliva and eyes wide, delirious, sweat gleaming across her scalp as she mouths pleas and incoherent babbling, until she’s groaning and finally hisses “stop, stop, please—“ and “ah” has changed to “ow” so Aria halts, flicking the toy off and pulling it free with biotics, letting it drop back on the table. It can always be cleaned later.

“How do you feel?” Aria nudges Shepard’s arm with her knee and traces a finger along her collarbone, endlessly fascinated by that sharp delineation between hard bone and tender skin.

“Fantastic. And you?”

“Not bad. But— _oh_ ,” she blinks, tilting her head in surprise as Shepard sits back, pulling Aria’s bare foot into her lap.

The human smiles, gaze not leaving Aria’s as she cups under the heel with her palm, using the thumb on her other hand to probe small circles one by one over the toes. She starts with the large one, spiraling inward, then goes down, pressing dry kisses over each as she finishes. Despite the initial confusion, Aria relaxes into the attentions, closing her eyes and letting out a satisfied sigh as Shepard starts massaging the inside of the foot, using those broad thumbs and talented fingers to crack balls of tension, weights Aria had grown so accustomed to carrying she forgot they were there.

Shepard bestows one last kiss, then carefully moves to the other foot. Aria wonders at how many others Shepard has cared for, caressed, nurtured—not with the resentment of a jealous lover, but curiosity. Wonders how many roles Shepard has slipped into and out of as needs demanded. Aria is no delicate greenhouse blossom, to be coddled lest she wither, but this _pampering_ is nice.

Shepard kisses her knee and murmurs, “For the pirate queen of Omega.”

It is her _due_ , and Aria chuckles at the thought. “Excellent. The queen’s hungry.”

A few minutes and they’re in the kitchen, Aria sitting at the table with a bowl of fresh-washed fruit on long stems. They were an impulse purchase from a small grocer, an idle fancy as their red color matches Shepard’s favorite lipstick. She uses her lips to pull it from the stem, mashes her tongue so it bursts sweet-tart against the roof of her mouth, and chews slowly. She pats her knee and Shepard takes her cue, kneeling with her toes flat on the cool floor and Aria wonders if perhaps they should have gone back to a carpeted area for this play, but no—Shepard’s beautiful like this, treasuring her small pains with all the stoicism she does the larger ones, shoulders back and her chin high as she watches Aria. She betrays no discomfort, only waiting for Aria’s command.

“Open your mouth.”

So she does, and Aria dangles the fruit so it rests against Shepard’s lip, watches her close her mouth and chew. They continue through the bowl in silence broken only by the moist sounds of eating, Aria studying the way Shepard’s throat bobs as she swallows, the way her thin lips turn plush as she puckers soft around her treat, and the tiny bulge of her cheeks as she rolls the fruit around her mouth. Aria alternates bites with Shepard, feeding first herself—chewing slowly, skimming her palm over Shepard’s stubble—before gifting Shepard with each bite.

 

Two weeks later and Aria’s at her throat, harsh lips and sharp-edged kisses as she pins Shepard to the wall. Shepard melts against her, blood singing copper through her and she buckles like a wave, breath hot on Aria’s scalp and hungry with want as the asari trails bites across her shoulders, her breasts, runs her tongue over the dented skin where she breaks through, tiny droplets budding beneath the flesh.

It’s been two weeks and Shepard might be saving a galaxy but she’s _Aria’s_ and the asari resents her absence, kisses her savage and fierce to remind her to return. Bruising kisses and teeth on lips, clashing with fury and terror in equal measure because her mayfly-lover returns each time with fresh stories and phantom injuries, her marks long healed because she is _Shepard_ and Cerberus equipped her with their best tech and armor but this is _Shepard_ and later, much later, Aria hisses, “Come back to me. _Alive_. Or I’ll kill you.”

Shepard laughs, tangled in the sheets with love-bites twined over her shoulders, her fingers slick with Aria and she smells like salt and cologne all woven together into some complex alchemy of want. She rolls onto her side, props herself on her elbow and grins, skin crinkling around the corners of her eyes. “Of course.” Dipping her head, teeth flashing brilliant in the cool shadows of the room, she murmurs, “I brought you a present.”

It’s a silk flower, crimson like a deep wound, nestled on white satin in a black box. Aria recognizes the silver stamp in the corner as being one of the finer gift shops on Illium, though it’s been years since she’s visited the boutique herself. A soft thing, releasing delicate perfume when she brushes her finger over the petals. A beautiful thing, cunning artifice crafting a thing that could be mistaken for real.

“For you,” Shepard whispers, pressing her lips to the hollow of Aria’s throat.

Aria does not know what love is, what makes passion and someone else’s sweat against your skin more than something to be sated and disposed of.

But she loves this small token.

 

The sculptor is missing.

Aria enjoyed that piece, spends at least a few minutes at the end of her day contemplating it. She had thought of commissioning another design, or perhaps checking at the gallery to see if the little human artist (what was her name? Nef?) had created anything new, but a quick extranet search brings up wailing tragedy pieces about a mother’s grief.

Aria flings the data pad, collapsing into her chair in disgust. The pad bounces once, twice, and Aria’s thoughts shift tracks, channeling her frustration down another path. She snaps a picture of Shepard’s gift, then enters it for an image search.

Page after page of results, enough to dizzy the shocked asari. She scrolls, clicks at random, and discovers this is a rose. Or at least a facsimile thereof. Order _Rosales_ , family _Rosaceae_ … apparently some sort of craze among humans, with over a hundred species and a thousand cultivars. Intrigued by this unexpected depth of human mania, she continues reading, skimming chunks and alighting only on what interests her.

Colors—each some ‘secret’ meaning, messages hidden by soft petals. She smirks, torn between amusement and approval at the idea of coded meanings, secrecy in plain sight. Yellow for friendship, warm as a distant sun. White for innocence, fresh-fallen snow and a blank page. Red for love.

Her eyes narrow, glaring at her gift.

It does not alter its hue.

Had Shepard known that? Or was it merely unexpected coincidence, a passing whim like the fruit Aria chose for dessert?

Rather than linger on those thoughts, sour in the back of her throat, she continues browsing. Then stops, scrolls back as a single word leaps from the screen.

Her thumb presses beneath the silk petals, running along the smooth stem. Bare, denuded—defenseless.

She knows what to give Shepard.

 

The little shop is out of place on Omega, graffiti shining through the latest coat of paint and the nearby alleys reek sour with stale urine. But _inside_ , past the optimistic glass door (with the practical iron bars lining the interior) is a lush paradise, blossoms attractively arrayed to greet the newcomer. Miniature trees, gnarled lines conveying the weight of centuries packed small, and exotic bioluminescent mosses, a pastel candy box assortment of fungi, all with discreet placards telling their planet of origin and care necessities.

The asari shopkeeper’s eyes widen, a little half-gasp of shock as she recognizes the queen of Omega and dips into a curtsey behind the protective fold of her apron. Her vorcha assistant imitates with an abbreviated bow but does not lower his gaze. He watches, gauging Aria—and if she weren’t amused by his supervisor’s rapid breathing and the sudden sweat beading her scalp, fear and awe evident in every nerve of her body, Aria would consider gutting him. He assesses her as a _threat_. One he would attempt disposing of, if need be.

‘Attempt’ being the key.

So Aria makes her request and the other asari practically falls over herself to show her roses, at least three different shades of red (scarlet like blood in water, crimson like a sunset, and one innocent pink that blushes dark along its outer petals) and the vorcha lingers about the edges, all scars and tatters like a junkyard beast prepared to defend what few scraps he dares to call his own. Aria idly wonders if the timid florist knows her assistant fancies her. They have the wrong body language for bondmates, but an asari and a vorcha are not _entirely_ unheard of.

“I could trim these if you like…” the shopkeeper murmurs, head ducked and hands twisting in front of her.

“No. I like thorns.”

While she wraps them, Aria grins to flash teeth at the vorcha. His nostrils flare and he nods, not bothering to hide the tension in his shoulders.

Leaving the shop, Aria vows to _keep_ them. She already lost the little human sculptor, but will not be so careless with these other lives that bring her some small pleasure.

 

She keeps the defenseless thing in a porcelain vase on her nightstand, along with the other sentimental detritus she cannot bring herself to toss. An iron key strung on a red ribbon, the lock missing and long broken. A gleaming chess set, the pieces glued to the board with the white king in checkmate between a queen and a bishop. Aria still smiles when she remembers her salarian friend’s reedy laughter as he congratulated her. His bones rest in some plot on his home planet, but she retains this memento.

The silk rose will outlast Shepard.

She drives that from her mind, biting Shepard’s neck as they fumble each other’s clothing off, shedding a trail from the door of her apartment to the bedroom. A boot in the foyer, then the other a few steps in—Shepard’s jacket flung over the couch, and Aria’s bra landing on top of it. Finally panties, seams ripping as Aria yanks it off Shepard’s ass, growls that she’ll buy her a new set and then a two-handed shove that sends the human sprawling on the bed. Shepard chuckles, thighs spread in welcome and elbows bent, wrists crossed over her head as Aria pounces. The asari muffles her with another hungry mashing of mouths, tugging Shepard’s lower lip between her teeth as she squeezes her nipple, kneads her breasts and straddles Shepard’s thigh, grinding her wet cunt against the hard muscle. Shepard bends her knee, flexes up and Aria groans, arching her back, belly rubbing against Shepard’s. She thinks about just chasing orgasms all night, but there was a _point_ to this, not just sex.

Rolling to the side, hip digging into the bed and swiping a rose from her recently purchased bouquet—careful to curl her fingers just under the bud, where the thorns are fuzzy prickles rather than wicked teeth—she sits up, still astride Shepard and surveying the landscape of her body.

“I got you a rose too, Shepard. _Mine’s_ the real thing, thorns and all.”

“I would never dare to blunt your edges,” Shepard murmurs, eyes soft and lips stretched wide.

Aria’s laugh crackles like lightning. “No, you wouldn’t. That would take all the fun out of it, right?” Like cupping a wineglass, she holds the flower up to Shepard’s nose. The human breathes deep, long nose buried in the petals and her chuckle rolls through Aria’s belly. Aria trails the blossom over Shepard’s cheek, her jaw, outlines the planes of her face with softness and following with her lips, tasting rather than smelling the heavy bitter ripeness of rose-scent clinging to Shepard’s skin.

Nose, eyelids, lips, throat—Shepard quivers below her, soft and breathy with her eyes closed. But when Aria twists the rose, pinches the still-wet base and presses the thorns and untrimmed leaves over Shepard’s neck like a collar, _that’s_ when the commander arches. The flush rises to her cheeks and Aria grins, feeling the sudden heat and her pulse racing, Aria’s favorite melody. She presses just hard enough to dent skin, does not even come close to piercing that supple flesh with untold credits spent rebuilding her stronger, harder, tougher, but she’s never needed to _break_ to prove ownership.

Still, she watches Shepard, wary of pressing too hard, too fast, anything that would shatter this erotic spell. She catches Shepard watching her in turn, the commander’s lips parted like a supplicant’s.

Petals and thorns, inseparable—to take one is to gut the whole.

Shepard trusts her, and Aria doesn’t know if it’s love (is it love when a flame sparks powder? When a firework obeys its chemistry?) but she will cradle it close, make space for it in the cage of her arms.

Trust means when Aria kisses her soft and gentle, plucks her skin with plush lips, Shepard knows to anticipate the teeth to follow as Aria trails bite-marks like chains across the span of her shoulders and the slope of her breasts. Shepard can trust Aria to chase away the lingering burn of a hard pinch with cool breath, just enough to stir the hairs on her body. And when Aria bends her over her knee and spanks her so hard that Shepard’s screams bounce off the walls, she savors those jagged-edged cries as much as her soft moans.

 

Later, when Shepard’s collapsed on the bed with the sheets plastered to her hips and Aria lies beside her, the back of her neck curved over Shepard’s outflung arm, Shepard murmurs, “Share a story?”

“Want me to tuck you in too?” Aria cracks one eye open, bends her neck to peer suspiciously at her lover.

“If you want. I just like learning about you.”

She learns quickly, too. Aria remembers when Shepard brought her tea, an earthy spice with just the right amount of agave nectar (not sugar) and almond milk (not dairy, not soy) and when Aria raised a brow at how perfectly Shepard replicated her favorite, Shepard dipped her head and murmured, “I watched you make it,” a smile tucked in the vowels of her words. Shepard traces her fingers over her like underlining poetry, sings soft in the back of her throat when she finds the hidden beats and rhythms that make Aria moan.

So Aria offers a small morsel, a crumb.

“My favorite color is red.”

It’s more than sentiment as she thinks of Shepard’s lipstick, sharply defined as any tattoo, and the bruised kisses lining Shepard’s thighs. Red—sweet, hard, dangerous—runs like veins through every memory that means a damn.

The dangerous—red sand bitter in her nostrils, sharp-sour burning, filling her up high and  bright. She still wakes up sweating on hard nights, the nights when the tide of memory sways to the pull of some distant moon and she relives the rifle-burst breaking the crate, splashing its toxic cargo in a scarlet plume. The flayed-edge euphoria as power courses through her, sizzling and crackling like arc-lightning in her veins as she takes down those petty thugs who thought they could waylay _her_ transport teams. She does not tell Shepard the specifics when her partner wakes up, but allows her to comfort her—‘allows’ because she hates admitting she wants it on those nights. She may not _need_ but she _wants_ , but to show even ‘want’ can be dangerous.

The hard—her first mission as a mercenary, still soft and somehow believing a gun and biotics are all it takes to win a fight. (She no longer believes this, she _knows_ this, but it depends on whose gun and whose biotics and who’s watching your ass in the bargain.) Her teammate crumpled into her, her blood spilling scarlet and Aria had never seen a human bleed before, had never known their blood was so _red_ and dark and jewel-bright splattered across the hard warehouse floor. A senior mercenary screamed in her headset to slap some medigel on it and Aria fumbled, slathered it on and it wasn’t enough to save her. (Years later, she saw a Pollack traveling exhibit. She forced herself to stay, to impassively study the strange frenzied splotches and bursts even though she heard that dying gasp again. When one of the curators asked if she enjoyed the art, she snorted “it looks like bird shit” and continued through the gallery.)

The sweet—crimson paint on Shepard’s lips, tattoo-crisp and dangerous perfection. Aria has read of wild creatures using bright colors in warning, flame-burst oranges and plasma-searing blues, venomous snakes and tropical frogs warning “I am toxic, I am dangerous—do not touch.” Aria’s venom is coiled tight within, carefully portioned—no baby cobra she, to misjudge her own potency. But Shepard, paragon that she is, wears her colors in warning, not threat. “Touch me or mine, and you will choke before you swallow.”

“Red,” Shepard repeats, rolling the word in her mouth, tasting it from the tip of her tongue to the back of her throat. As if she can pluck apart the complexities and memories layered in that single syllable, analyze them note by note to learn Aria deeper than skin.

It gives Aria perverse satisfaction to mar those perfectly red lips with her thumb, smooth nail catching over the bottom and pinching to draw her close.

 

But Shepard stays because she _wants_ to, when she lies supine and wrists framing her ears. Shimmering blue light dances across them in a narrow band, creates shadows in the valleys of the sheets and casts her profile against Aria’s bedroom wall. The biotic shackles cannot hold Shepard if she truly struggles—Aria has fought too many skirmishes to discount “even” a human vanguard—but they hum against her skin, tingling through the fine bones of her wrist and fingers and Aria loves knowing Shepard is here because she _wants_ to be, because she submits to _Aria_ and even when she cries, bruises, moans beneath Aria’s hands, Aria’s teeth, Aria’s lips she stays because she _chooses_.

Loyalty makes stronger chains than any alloy.

Two fingers in Shepard’s cunt, thumb pressing hard on the clit and Shepard gasps, her thighs clamping shut and hips lifting as if struggling for escape. So Aria curves her finger, shoving just a little deeper—

“ _Ah!_ No, not yet. Too much,” Shepard gasps, and Aria stops. Aria has read of other customs, other partners who use coded words to signal they’ve had enough, but Shepard is blunt force and open arms. When she says “stop,” that _means_ stop.

Aria waits for Shepard to catch her breath, shifting from ragged-edged gulps to easy sighs. Waits for Shepard to nod, for that scarlet mouth to murmur, “I’m ready,” and Aria wraps her lips over Shepard’s clit, nibbles with lip-blunted teeth and leans her weight into it. Shepard moans music, more responsive than any instrument, and Aria slides a finger back in. One finger, curling soft and gentle, then two—a careful thrust and Shepard groans, “Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” and _squeaks_ and it bubbles like champagne because who can imagine the feared, dreaded Commander Shepard _squeaking_?

Two fingers becomes three, patiently rocking her hand back and forth and Shepard’s wet and flowing, smearing slick all across Aria’s chin as she flattens her feet on the bed and shifts forward as if to impale herself on Aria’s hand. Aria wipes her mouth on Shepard’s inner thigh, nips to warn her back (and _fuck_ but Shepard’s gasp is hot. Aria would love to record it, that filthy moan rising to a sharp hiss past her teeth, something to fuel Aria’s imagination on the nights when Shepard’s out saving the galaxy) and crooks her pinky, adds it to the digits already stretching Shepard taut and sweet. She’s so wet, slippery to the touch, and Aria thinks about trying for a whole fist, but no—not tonight, not without more lube and preparation. This is enough, this is more than enough to please Shepard, to push her over the edge and send her crashing while Aria skims her teeth along her ribs, traces her tongue over the bone as if to gnaw through to her heart.

Afterwards, they go to the kitchen for refreshments. Shepard glugs water as Aria scores a leather-skinned fruit into quarters. Digging her thumbs under the rind, she pulls it apart, spilling red seeds and white membrane. The human leans forward, laughing in recognition.

“A pomegranate? Wasn’t expecting an old Earth fruit. Any particular reason?”

“I like the taste,” Aria snorts. “And it’s not an easy fruit.”

“So you like things that are difficult? Maybe I should play hard to get.” There’s a smile woven in her seams, but Aria snaps her teeth together, growling at her impudent Commander.

“You have to _earn_ a pomegranate. It does not spill its sweetness for just anyone.”

“So you are saying _you_ are difficult.”

Shaking a juice-stained finger at Shepard, Aria snaps, “One more word and I will slam you into the floor. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Later, reclining against the pillow and feeding Shepard seeds one by one from her palm, Aria cocks her head as she feels Shepard chuckle into her hand.

“What’s so funny, Shepard?”

“Just wondering if this makes me Persephone.” Her eyes scan Aria’s face, lips crooking into another of those haphazard smiles as she recognizes Aria’s blank stare. “An old story. Not important.”

Aria snorts, plucking a seed and rolling it over her thumb before pressing it to Shepard’s mouth. Shepard sucks it in with an audible pop, kissing Aria’s fingertip before chewing.

Taking her own bite, savoring the sweet-tart burst across her tongue, Aria thinks of other stories, other tales. Thinks about the power granted by sharing secrets, about how many more morsels of knowledge are hidden away between them.

“So. Fair trade. You learned something about me last time. I want to learn something about you.”

“I am an open book.”

And she _is_ , but she’s stark simplicity. Like poetry, crystal-sharp meanings lurking in the unread spaces. Shepard is a genre of her own.

“Tell me a sex fantasy.”

“Straight to the point, hm?” Shepard grins, wriggling her toes against Aria’s ankle and exhaling a happy gust as her gaze drifts to the ceiling. “Okay. So… I _really_ like big toys. I like your fingers and that orb-thing, I mean _wow_ , don’t get me wrong, but—“

“I _know_ you do. Stop stalling.” Aria punctuates that with a stern glare, pinches Shepard’s arm until the commander winces. But not hard enough to hide the crinkle at the corners of her eyes, Shepard’s smile shining through.

“Okay, so… one lover, or maybe just a dildo, in front of me. Hard in my pussy, stretching and painful—not rough, just… big. Taut, the kind of dull pain you get when it’s on that edge between too hard and just right. Then another behind me.” Shepard ducks her chin, blush spreading across her nose and to the tips of her ears. “Two at once. Slow. Patient. Grinding together, filling me up and making me come so hard I can’t stand.” Her ears are bright red now—rose-red, though the cartilage is stiffer than any flower as Aria tweaks the spiral of her ear, flicks the lobe with an impatient growl.

“Get on with it. Tell me all the dirty details.” Aria bares her teeth in a  wicked crescent grin as she feels the sheets rustle over her thigh. “And touch yourself. I know you want to.”

Shepard’s breasts quiver as she lets out a long sigh, skimming her fingers down her body as Aria twitches the sheets to expose her sex. The human presses her fingers over the hair, scritches soft with the nails, and then starts rubbing the outer lips. Slow, steady—even with her voice awkward and fumbling, her hands know what to do. Shepard licks her lips and murmurs “So… one person below me. Filling me up, playing with my breasts. A lot of lube, lots of banter, lots of ‘oh no, that’s not gonna _fit_ ’ and ‘oh yes, we’ll _make_ it fit’ before they slide in. Really slow, gentle, lets me take it all in, until my ass rests against their thighs.”

Aria sets the bowl aside and shifts her shoulders, angling her legs at a diagonal so only her upper torso stays in contact with Shepard. Holding her wet fingers up to Shepard’s lips, she waits until the human sucks them clean of tangy juice before asking, “And then?” Her own cunt aches, and while Shepard may be slow and gentle with herself, Aria prefers to masturbate hard and fast, bring herself to climax with all the explosive force of a grenade. She lowers her fingers, slides them over the glistening slick of her pussy, and starts rubbing her clit as Shepard continues.

“Then… me leaning forward, or maybe being pushed so I have to catch myself on my hands as someone else gets behind me, and just… _shoves_ into me. Hard, fast, so much lube I squelch.” She bites her lip, holding fierce between her teeth as she gives Aria a sidelong look. “I mean, I _know_ I’d need some more warm-up first, and that’s fun too—fingers, smaller toys and all, but it’s the fantasy, you know? Just getting used hard, being _made_ to fit everything.”

“How big?”

Shepard lifts her hand, curling her thumb and fingers. Aria loves her hands, her broad palms and long fingers and the little calluses on the pads, but still lets out a low whistle as she maps out the size of the cock Shepard mimes stroking.

“Ever tried anything that big before?”

“Not quite. Some toys, but not that size.” She brings her fingers together, still large but not nearly as massive as her first gesture. “They take a little more work than just doing a quick jill-off before bed.” Shepard’s flush spreads down the back of her neck at that admission.

“Good thing I can buy a strap-on. Might have to get a krogan to find someone packing that.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Shepard mumbles into Aria’s shoulder, tilted away from the aural crease but Aria still hears her razor-sharp and clear.

“Oh? Tell me about having this _krogan_ riding your ass.” She’s gratified by Shepard’s flush, even the backs of her hands now a mottled pink as the human radiates sheer embarrassment. And Aria’s not into sharing, really, but the idea of showing off what she owns… she can get into that.

“Well—you’d be there too. Telling me what to do.” Shepard pauses, moans as her fingers slide back over her pussy, palm grinding into the pad.

Seeing her distraction, Aria picks up the thread of the little fantasy. “Of course I would. Just  because I’m letting someone else _use_ you—”

Shepard gasps in delighted shock, wriggling her ass like she’s trying to burrow backwards into the mattress. Her eyes flutter shut as she rolls her head towards Aria, cheek mashing into the pillow but it amplifies rather than muffles her panting.

“—doesn’t mean I’m sharing,” Aria finishes with a possessive growl. She starts rubbing herself harder, a firm circle around her clit as she continues, watching Shepard writhe beside her. “I’d tell you to spread your ass nice and wide. Tell you to accept his cock like a good girl. Tell you to relax, take it in—and that we’re gonna _make_ it fit even if we have to use a whole fucking _barrel_ of lube on you.” Aria leans over, smirks as she spots Shepard thrust a finger into her cunt and remove it, glistening, to probe a little lower. “Finger your ass just like that. I want to watch.”

Shepard spreads her knees, bumps the side of her leg into Aria’s thigh and Aria lifts her leg, crossing it over Shepard’s. Their limbs make a loose ‘X’ beneath the sheets.

“So once he’s ball-deep in your ass, I’d tell him to fuck you hard enough to make your tits bounce. Get you screaming, smear all your make-up into a mess and impale you on his cock. Keep going, make you come so hard you see novas bursting behind your eyes. Finger your clit in the bargain, push you over the edge. How does that sound?”

“ _Really_ good,” Shepard gasps, eyes squeezed tight and calves clenched, muscles knotting beneath Aria’s leg and the asari can tell she’s already so close, riding that edge—so Aria presses harder into her own clit, trying to catch up because even if synchronized orgasms are overrated it’s still fun to try.

“Of course, can’t let him come _in_ you. You’re _my_ toy, don’t want anyone else making a mess in you. So right before he comes, I’d make him pull out. Paint a stripe over your ass, make it puddle in the dip of your spine. I bet you’d look real good like that, gushing wet between your thighs and him leaking all over you.”

Shepard hits orgasm with all the subtlety of a rocket launcher, her toes curling and her back arching, lifting with her finger still in her ass and her tongue thrust out, the most ridiculous face but Aria loves how uninhibited she gets, and Aria cannot come in time—her own climax follows a few seconds later, close enough to overlap but still not perfect.

Well, fuck perfection. This was good enough.

 

A month and several conversations later, sitting in one of Omega’s ‘love hotels’ (not that sex has anything to do with love, but the slang makes Aria chuckle) with Shepard and Churak, she knows it’s probably not going to be perfect but it should be good enough. Shepard’s already naked, on display and ready for use, sitting on a high-backed, armless chair in the center of the room.

Churak grins at Shepard, the scar on his cheek making it look as lopsided as Shepard’s own smile. Aria’s used him before; the krogan mercenary is another gun for hire, but he’s bright enough to know discretion. In this case, it’s another service he provides—one he _enjoys_ , and they’ve done this before with other partners, but they enjoy a cool professional courtesy otherwise.

He watches her back, studies it, and for a moment Aria wonders if perhaps krogan are fascinated by the smooth, humpless backs of other races the way she herself is continually drawn to Shepard’s ears and pubic hair, but the illusion’s broken when he speaks.

“Thresher maw tattoo. Nice. Urdnot Wrex was the last to take one down on foot, but I’ve heard of you and your _krantt_.”

And Aria knows it’s not for memory of a battle well fought but memory of the dead that she wears that ink, but Shepard shrugs and deflects with a shallow bow and a murmured, “Thank you.”

Aria already spent a pleasantly warm and slippery half hour at her apartment with Shepard, preparing her with tongue and fingers and toys. The broad base of a plug winks between Shepard’s cheeks when the human tilts her hips, but being a responsible host means letting Churak watch at least a little bit. Leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, she growls, “Enough chit-chat, Shepard. Start fondling your tits.”

Churak snorts and sits back, still fully clothed but with his erection swelling beneath his pants. The unzipping sound cuts over Shepard’s moan as she spreads her knees wide, pussy glistening wet and puffy beneath the dark forest of hair. She licks her thumb, pinches the nipple and rolls slow and steady, as much performance as any Omega stripper. Flexing her toes, digging the balls of her feet into the floor as she rocks back and forth, Aria knows she must be trying to make the plug wriggle inside her because her breasts aren’t _that_ sensitive.

“Lower now. Open yourself up and tell Churak how much you want his cock in you.”

Shepard gulps, tongue flicking to the corner of her mouth. Aria recognizes arousal as well as embarrassment in the blush on her cheeks as she looks at Churak, eyes high and on his face rather than the girth of his cock.

“I would really like you to fuck me. Hard.”

“How hard?” Aria asks, watching _her_ Shepard watch Churak, pulse quickening. She’s already wet, still wearing her suddenly too-warm jacket and pants.

“Hard enough to make my tits bounce.”

“And where do you want him?”

In a slow, deliberate display, Shepard rests her thumbs on the dimples where her thighs meet her torso, using her fingers to part her lips, like an unfurling bud to expose the glistening pink of her inner pussy, the dusky rose of her outer folds, the entrance to her cunt so shamelessly _wet_ that Aria can smell the musk and arousal even from her seat. A variation from the original script, but a needful one since Aria has absolutely _no_ intention of being at the bottom of their sandwich later.

“And would you like to fuck her, Churak?” Aria does not even bother looking at the krogan, still watching her Shepard shiver with excitement.

“Definitely.”

“Then go do it. Both of you, on the bed.” She manages to make it come out as a bored drawl, straightening up and crossing her ankles so her thighs spread loose and easy. The sound of her unbuckling her belt and undoing her pants is hidden under the bed’s creaking as Churak kneels on it, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He offers Shepard his arm when she accidentally hits the bed’s vibrate function and falls to her hands.

Recovering gamely (but which game? Chess or Kepesh-Yakshi are both too cerebral for the kind of rough and tumble Shepard exudes. Wrestling, perhaps?) Shepard rises, plucking the box of condoms from the bedside table and tearing open one of the packets. Pinching the tip of the condom, she rolls the black SynthSkin over Churak’s shaft, smoothing it snug against his quad.

He gives a soft grunt, popping the lid off a bottle of lube—Aria hadn’t even noticed him grabbing it, too focused on Shepard—and Shepard wraps her hand over his cock, thumb and forefinger failing to meet.

“Are you sure this is going to fit?”

Churak looks up, grins over Shepard’s shoulder to Aria, and growls, “We’ll _make_ it fit,” with relish. It sounds even more ridiculously pornographic than when Aria and Shepard were just lying in bed and telling stories, but Shepard’s grinning ear to ear so Aria swallows her laughter. The krogan squirts lube into Shepard’s outstretched palm and she slathers it generously over his cock, twisting her hands to glide slick over the condom, making him glisten. Somehow, the tight black sheath coupled with the wet gleam makes him look even bigger, Shepard’s mouth opening into startled “O” of delight as she wipes the excess lube onto the blankets. She hooks her hands over Churak’s shoulders, thighs quivering and even with her face turned away Aria can read excitement in the jutting wings of her shoulder blades, the way she looks like she’s about to vibrate out of her skin. Shepard’s breath rises in a surprised gasp when Churak grabs her ass, lifting up and her legs fit around him, knees clamping over the bunched fabric of his shirt and feet dangling so her heels drum against his bare lower back. His pants slip lower, crumpling over his thighs, but Aria watches Shepard, hands white-knuckled over her knees and holding her breath as Churak slides Shepard down his cock.

Her first instinct is to snap at him to be careful, but Shepard’s loud moan makes it so very explicit she’s enjoying herself. Shepard’s hand clenches, making a fist in his shirt and pulling tight. Churak grunts, frustration and satisfaction in equal measure as his erection slips against her, sliding past her entrance and he repositions her. A careful nudge past those swollen lips—and _there_ , Aria exhales relief as Shepard groans “oh _yes_.”

“And how does that feel?” Aria asks, re-crossing her legs for that little bit of friction it gives between her thighs. If it were just a vid, she would be already touching herself, rubbing her clit and maybe slipping a finger inside, but that feels too strangely intimate to do in front of Churak.

“Good.” Shepard twists her neck, craning to meet Aria’s gaze. “ _Full_ ,” she moans, eyes glassy and teeth tipped red from where she’s bitten off her lipstick.

Aria smirks, because Shepard might be a predator but she’s _hers._ Licking her lips, she addresses Churak. “Start fucking her.”

Still kneeling, Churak needs no further command—he starts pumping Shepard up and down, gripping her ass so tightly Aria can see the flesh dimple beneath his fingers. Hard enough to bruise, but Shepard’s mewls show only pleasure. Heels bouncing against his ass and sweat running down her back, Shepard is _gorgeous_ with her face flushed, the red creeping over the back of her ears and down her neck. Sweat forms a silvery gleam over her form, slickness gushing between her legs and dripping to coat Churak’s quad. Despite all her noise, Aria knows she’s not coming yet; just enjoying the ride, dangling helpless as a rag doll while he pounds into her. Shepard’s hands on his shoulders provide balance, not support; perhaps all that keeps her from falling backwards as they slam together with a wet slapping sound.

“Can you feel that plug in her ass?”

Churak chuckles, pausing his strokes to squeeze her butt and pull the cheeks aside. “Yeah. Makes it feel tighter. More pressure.”

“Then this should feel even better.” Aria rises, rolling her pants down her hips and exposing the tight black underwear she chose tonight. She did not select it for its appearance—though she knows her ass looks great in it—but for its hardlight function, which she activates with a click. A translucent blue form appears, shimmering similar to that produced by omni-tools but with a much more friendly purpose. “Make room for me.”

Both of them move to obey, Churak leaning back and Shepard sliding her knees around him, tilting her body forward so her forearms rest on his chest. Aria settles behind Shepard, braces one hand against the small of her back and pulls slowly on the base of the plug. The human makes a soft noise, muffled in the way that Aria recognizes as having her lip between her teeth, and her ass relaxes to let it slide out with a pop. Grabbing the lube, she slathers it all over the strap-on, the fluid hanging sheer in the air. Aria likes the look of it, but aesthetics aren’t going to fuck Shepard—so she fits herself in, one hand on the base of her cock to guide it. Churak helpfully lifts his hips, angling Shepard upward and prying her cheeks apart. Aria eases her cock to the tight ring of Shepard’s ass, pressing until that little bit of resistance eases and she slides in. As promised, she used enough lube to squelch.

Shepard moans beautifully, and Aria wishes she could see her face—but that’s the drawback, unfortunately. Even with the perfect fit of Shepard’s thigh against her legs, Churak’s knuckles brushing Aria’s hips and the way they slide together, all smoothness and radiant heat, she _misses_ seeing Shepard’s face, the way her eyes squeeze shut and how she bites her lip and tongue, squirming and near-grimacing before cresting that peak. Aria can always tell the exact moment of orgasm because of how Shepard’s lips soften, the tension releasing like dawn spilling colors across the sky.

Aria decides next time, she’ll get a mirror.

“Talk to me, Shepard. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Good. _Really_ good.” Shepard’s grip tightens on Churak’s shoulders and Aria interlaces her fingers over her lover’s. The human’s hands relax as she pants, “You’re both—wow. It’s a stretch, but _good_.” Rocking forward, then back so her ass bumps Aria’s thighs, she adds, “I can feel you both rubbing against each other.” And she exhales long and gusty, pleasure and pride as she asks, “Can you?”

Aria can hear the unspoken dare to push harder.

This hardlight model does not provide as much clitoral feedback as Aria normally prefers, but she hadn’t wanted to lose control in front of anyone besides Shepard. Still, she can judge the fit from the way the pressure changes, having to shove _in_ slow and gentle but able to ease out with less effort. Obscene and wonderful, enough to make sweat trickle down the back of her neck, but when she squeezes her thighs together it’s just not enough friction to satisfy.

So rather than rise to the bait, she replies, “A bit. How does that feel for you, Churak?”

“Damn tight. Almost painful. Might have bruises on my cock.”

Shepard leans forward, sweat-slick body smelling so good—her usual cologne, but more salt and copper beneath it—and bumps her forehead against Churak’s. “Sorry about that.”

“Hah. Never said it wasn’t _good_.”

Aria nuzzles her teeth over the back of Shepard’s shoulders, the silhouetted Normandy at the base of her neck dipping beneath Aria’s mouth. Her foot brushes Churak’s knee; an accidental intimacy, her focus on Shepard as she finds her rhythm. With both her and Churak moving slow and cautious, Shepard’s definitely warming up—but she doesn’t want Shepard just warm and relaxed, she wants her _screaming_ , ecstatic and coming so hard she can’t stand. Shepard tries her best, pushing against the bed and arching against Aria, her belly pressed to Churak’s, and Aria worries they won’t be able to make this work, that enjoyable as this is it’s only a test of Shepard’s elasticity rather than her capacity for pleasure.

But somehow, something shifts—either her rhythm manages to synch with Churak’s, or perhaps they managed to align their bodies at just the right angle, and it flows smooth and easy. Aria scrapes her nails over the bristles of Shepard’s scalp, catches her fingers just behind the ear and pushes forward as Churak slides back, Shepard moaning like a porn vid on audio-loop.

“Talk to me, Shepard. Tell me _exactly_ how you feel,” Aria growls, pinching the soft lobe before skimming her nails down the side of Shepard’s ribs. She crosses the bones of her hips, Aria’s knuckles digging into the smooth scales of Churak’s belly as her fingers curl in search of Shepard’s clit.

“Both of you— _oh_ —that feels good, _real_ good. Love the— _oh god_ — way you push in just as— as he pulls out, just—so full it aches.” Shepard babbles, voice rising and less articulate as she starts dropping words, body shaking beneath Aria’s and collapsing onto her forearms as Aria finds her clit. The asari rubs hard and fast, a brutal back and forth rather than the slow circles Shepard normally teases herself with.

Aria bites her shoulder, closes her eyes to shut out Churak’s face, bucks her hips forward as Shepard starts keening high and wordless, her shoulders dotted with sweat and back flushed and Aria stops caring about the rhythm, just wants to ram harder, deeper, wants to make sure Shepard’s coming with Aria’s cock firmly in her ass—

Judging from Shepard’s scream, Aria succeeded. But instead of taking a breather, she continues pushing, grinding herself in and out as she feels Shepard coming so hard she can feel the ripples through the strap-on. Shepard’s a greedy woman, moaning “more, oh fuck, _yes_ , give me more” as the lube and her own eager body permit Aria easy access, a shameless lack of resistance now as Aria pulls her hand back to slap Shepard’s thigh.

Shepard whimpers shamelessly, begging, “Yes, please— _more_.” She lowers one hand from Churak’s shoulder, squeezing around Aria’s wrist and miming another slap. With a chuckle, Aria twists free from Shepard’s grasp and rains down another series of spanks, snapping crisp over the flesh, a sharp counterpoint to the duller impact of Shepard’s thighs and ass smacking between Aria and Churak’s hips.

“Can’t keep back much more,” Churak grunts, eyes shut and nostrils flaring.

“Only when she’s had enough.” Aria punctuates that with a glare, digging her knees into the covers and giving Shepard a possessive squeeze.

The human manages a chuckle, though it escapes as a gasp. “Soon. Real soon. Just— _oh_ …” Her body tightens, hard and rigid beneath Aria, back straight and breath hissing past her teeth. She jerks so hard Aria feels the blood hum beneath her teeth, tattoos swimming in dark whorls before collapsing bonelessly.

“May I?” Churak’s gaze meets Aria’s over Shepard’s shoulder, hands circling the human’s waist.

Aria nods, pulling herself back—out of Shepard, deactivating the hardlight—and pats Shepard’s ass.

With Aria out of the way, Churak goes back to lifting Shepard, slamming her down again— _using_ her—and grunting as he gets into his preferred rhythm.

Aria props herself on her elbow, leaning beside them with her knees stacked and watching Shepard groan, tracing every tremor in those breasts and jiggle in her thighs. Even Churak’s grunts can’t distract her from how damn _good_ her Shepard looks with her ass leaking lube and her thighs glistening with sweat and sex. Shepard’s poor abused asshole winks obscenely, dilated and stretched and Aria already knows she’s going to be riding her ass again and again. Next time, _with_ clit feedback because she wants to fuck her until neither of them can stand.

Finally, Churak gives a final thrust and Shepard groans, limp and wet and squeezing his wrists as he trembles in climax. Churak pulls out with his hand on the base of the condom, a contented sigh as he taps her arm and she moves aside. He sits up, pulling off the condom and tossing it in the waste bin.

A brief exchange of pleasantries and a quick check-in later, and Churak leaves. Aria and Shepard spend the rest of their purchased time enjoying the bed’s gentle vibrations and the in-room snacks.

 

The next day Shepard’s flat in Aria’s bed, elbows digging into Aria’s pillow and sighing as the asari rubs bruise-balm over her ass. Coin-sized circles of purpled flesh, arrayed in a curved series that might just reflect two fingers and a massive thumb—lingering fingerprints from a krogan’s excited grip.

Aria mutters imprecations, but Shepard chuckles.

“No regrets. No worries.”

“As long as you had fun.”

“Oh, I _did_.” Propping her chin in her hands, Shepard twists to wink at Aria. “Believe me, if I wasn’t, I’d have told you.”

Aria cuffs her shoulder affectionately before commanding “stay here” and leaving for the kitchen. She washes the lingering salve off her hands, then grabs the bowl sitting in the fridge before returning to the bedroom.

Shepard sits up, takes the bowl—but not fully, the vessel nestled between their hands, a shared burden—and scoops a few pomegranate seeds onto her fingers.

Aria opens her mouth, savoring the tart bursts as Shepard drops the glistening seeds into her mouth. Her tongue probes the plush sweetness before it lands sour on the back of her tongue, mouth tingling with the jewel-bright complexity. She takes Shepard’s hand, cups it, the ridges of her knuckles resting like dice across Aria’s palm, garnet globes nestled within. Aria plucks six solitary seeds—six for the hours, days, months until she may next see Shepard. She finally looked up that old tale from Earth, of a sunny girl-child stolen away to the underworld, her freedom bartered for six stolen slivers of sweetness just as this. Aria is no scholar to study these old myths, to detangle fact from fancy and the whispers of a people long dead, but she senses the beating heart of the tale.

It is a story of power and choices.

Shepard’s choice to remain, red juices staining her teeth and lips curled high in pleasure. She is no girl-child but a woman grown, arms hard with muscle and eyes sparkling bright. Aria has centuries on this little mayfly human, but her scant decades contain things Aria will never see, dares hope never to see.

She’s thought about melding with Shepard, savoring the crackle of biotics as their synapses align, eyes going dark to embrace eternity, joining the physical pleasure with the deep intimacy of a neural link—but that’s the weakness, the keystone right there. The intimacy, the _exchange_ , letting Shepard see as much of her as she does. Aria does not _need_ to join to read Shepard, not when her body speaks volume with every gasp and shiver. Aria knows Shepard, bruised flesh and bloody kisses and a thousand ways to make her scream. The way her blood sings to the surface when Aria slaps her, the way she crosses her wrists and that vein on her neck throbs beneath Aria’s lips, the way they join, Aria all cold fury and icy tempest to Shepard’s eager endurance. Her body-temple, risen from ashes, refuge and shelter to her disparate crew, mother of monsters (for what else is she to that tank-bred krogan, to the outlaw mercenaries who trade her name in curses, to be the one to _resist_ and slay an Ardat-Yakshi, a creature once regarded as a _goddess_?) and with a presence so powerful it’s a wonder the station does not quake beneath her feet—this being submits to _her_ , Aria.

And Shepard will always come back. She smiles, taps her finger into Aria’s palm once, twice—goes up to six times, and Aria knows she recognizes the myth.

Suicide mission or no, Shepard _will_ come back.


End file.
